


Dragons, Slash, and Great Bears -- Oh My!

by kye_16



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Multi, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-04
Updated: 2018-03-19
Packaged: 2018-05-31 02:58:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6452752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kye_16/pseuds/kye_16
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Decided to try filling prompts as short writing exercises while working on other long fic. (Read: procrastination/self-indulgent immersion in fandom.) There will be more than one pairing, and tags/rating will be updated as warranted and included at the start of any given fill.   </p><p>Of course I start with my dearest love, Dorian of House Pavus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Orlesian Twats

**Author's Note:**

> Dorian makes nice at the Winter Palace, by Tevinter's standards. G rating, no warnings.  
> Prompt: things you said through your teeth

                "Dreadfully sorry, I fear the wine's going to my head. Did you say something about Andraste needing a saviour?" Two sets of masks and overpriced silks parted as Dorian Pavus slid between them, a crystal flute half-empty in his hand. He shifted his body toward one Orlesian while casting a wink at the other. "Not that I'm terribly learned in theology, but I must admit my curiosity. So much _dull_ conversation about, don't you find?"

                The two masked figures shared a look between them as the foreigner took a sip of his drink. A third party that had been hovering nearby drifted off toward the main ballroom, leaving only the three of them on their corner of the balcony.

                "And just what would a Tevinter know of Andraste?" The more slender of the two crossed their arms, head angled in challenge.

                "Just the rumours, of course." Dorian flicked one hand in dismissal, an exaggerated gesture that almost caught the mask next to him. "She escaped my countrymen, which is no small feat of bravery and cunning, I assure you. Caught the attention of the most powerful being in all creation, being that He created it and all. Had a real dick of a first husband." He shifted his weight heavily, clumsily, from one foot to the other. The Orlesian that had spoken flashed a smirk at their silent companion -- _can you believe this man?_

                "Even you, then, should know that Andraste need no saviour." The broader of the two spoke up now, their posture changing, defensive.

                "Hence my curiosity, good sers. I couldn't leave such a statement unchallenged, if indeed I had heard correctly." Dorian leaned in slightly then, his eyes shifting about. He dropped his voice conspiratorially. "What _did_ I hear then, pray tell? What is it you think the Maker's Bride could possibly need?"

                The posture of both Orlesians changed in that moment. The more slender of them shifted back, defensiveness in their shoulders if not visible on their face. The other, the broader of the two, scoffed and leaned in. They didn't seem to notice their partner's sudden reticence.

                "It's not what she _needs_ , Tevinter, it's what she doesn't. By your own country's reputation I think you'll know the answer to that. I didn't say she needed a saviour. I said she _didn't_ need a bloody knife-ear." The speaker turned their head and spat at the word, as if just the thought sullied their tongue. Dorian's eyes slid down even as the corners of his mouth turned up in a small, private smile. The Orlesian took the opening. "Knife-ears around here have been getting a lot of ideas above their station lately, this one's just the worst of the lot. That bloody savage is dragging Our Lady's name through the mud, pretending to speak for her. As if She would ever be so base as to choose one of _them_ as her Herald."

                "Such a bold statement." Dorian kept his voice pitched low to prevent it from carrying. "I admit, it's not often I find a southerner that approves of the way we doing things back home." Both Orlesians visibly bristled.

                "Watch your tongue. I never said I approved of your lot." The slender one _humphed_ in agreement.

                "Ah, yes, of course not." Dorian chuckled as he turned to face the speaker. He fixed them dead in the eye. "After all, were we in the Imperium, I would take a knife to _your_ ears right now. One must take care to find the poetry even in situations such as these." His left hand flicked his flute with precision, sending the dregs to splatter behind him on the shoes of the taller person behind him.  Both moved to react -- the one in front of him to put hands on their hips, the one behind uncrossing their arms in indignation -- and froze where they stood.

                A smug, sober smile was on Dorian's face. His empty hand was clenched tight, cool tendrils of frost rolling off in the humidity of summer. A fun trick he'd picked up from the Iron Lady. His voice was low and threatening when he spoke, pushed out through a false smile and clenched teeth.

                "You poncy southern bastards never fail to disgust me. There is a hole in the sky that threatens to consume all creation, and you sneer down your noses over pastry and terrible wine just waiting for it to happen. You've the self-preservation of lemmings. _That man_ , on the other hand, is almost single-handedly restoring order to this blighted shithole, which I will remind you _includes_ your land, your investments, and your worthless hides." He straightened up, perching his empty flute in the half-open hand of the person before him before turning to eye the other with disdain. "The Imperium would eat you alive. Be grateful that I am _nothing_ like my countrymen." Dorian took a couple strides before turning to look again at the two Orlesians, a cold glare in his eyes. "Oh, and darlings? We will accept your gratitude in terms of both goods and monetary support for the Inquisition."

                His casual stride belied the indignant, impotent anger simmering just under the surface. He toyed with the idea of letting the spell wear off naturally, but thought better of it. The third person that had wandered away at the start of the whole debacle approached him now as he waved off the sheen of frost.

                "My lord."

                "Sorry to interrupt. I overheard in passing and simply couldn't help myself. Your employer will want their names." The young spy gave a shallow bow.

                "As you say, my lord. Nightingale's thanks. Enjoy your evening."


	2. Orlais: Thedas' Love Hotel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bull doesn't sleep alone so well anymore. Dorian helps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Adoribull. G rating, no warnings.   
> Prompt: Things you said at 1am.

                The sheets are light, soft, the gentlest touch on his body. The blankets are deceptively warm for their weight, with none of the scratchiness of wool. He tosses and turns, trying subconsciously to force a furrow for his body in the feathery mat and finding only the wooden supports of the bed. They create pressure on his arm, his hips, and he watches the ceiling in dissatisfied silence.

                The Iron Bull has stayed in Orlais before -- many, many times, in many places, many beds. Being with the Inquisition, however, has made him comfortable. He has found his middle ground in soft earth and good quality bedrolls, in the distant din of a tavern and the heat of bodies, not blankets. As with the Chargers, he has learned faces and habits and smells over and over again, and even in the dead of night there is some small peace to be gained with these people. After all, they're his people now, after a fashion.

                Not tonight, though. Tonight is a night of propriety. Tonight there has been dancing and drinking in grand ballrooms, which is to say it has been a night of deceit and treachery. Masks hide lies behind lies. Long dresses conceal short blades. It says something about him that his patience for the Game is not what it used to be. He's not entirely disappointed in himself for that.

                What he _is_ disappointed by is the lack of familiarity in the room right now. For all the fancy trappings, there is nothing comfortable here. Bull levers himself up into a sitting position, small notes of stiffness protesting in his joints already. He can't sleep here. He already knows it. An ache in his chest reminds him that not every room in this wing is like his; at least one is inestimably more familiar than the rest.

                He is already sitting, and from here it is a small thing to stand and throw on trousers. He doesn't plan to leave the room, of course. Even if he is having trouble sleeping, it's not the first night for it, and it won't be the last. Countless nights spent on rickety, too-small cots litter his past; sometimes in dangerous places, sometimes covered still in the stink of blood, sometimes with half-drunk nobles passed out nearby.

                Bull takes care to latch the door quietly behind him as he pads out of his room. A voice in the back of his head reminds him that one of the best things about having the Chargers was never having to sleep alone on a mission. Unless he really wanted to of course, but that hadn't been true in a long time. Safety brought him more comfort and peace than the extra space. Just one more thing he'd allowed himself to become accustomed to, really.

                He scuffs a foot against the runner in the hallway, looking up at the door before him. He wants to go back to bed. He wants the plush swaddling of blankets and feathers to cart him off to sleep without issue, as they could for so many. The gilt wood of the door is solid under his fingers as they brush it, under his palm as he rests it flat against the surface with a sigh. He wants to be able to sleep without having to work at it. It's hard to know which is worse: the nightmares, the memories, or the fact that he's given himself over to things that comfort him so well. Such weakness.

                His finger taps lightly at the wood once, twice, three times before he catches himself. This is unfair. It is the middle of the night. His eyes cast down the hall, though the only motion they catch is the flicker of covered lamplight from around the corner. The lamp at the stairs, nothing more.

                He must return to bed. He will not tap again.

                One deep breath is followed by the next. A fifth. A seventh. He leans his head forward until the tips of his horns rest against the door. He didn't mean to leave his room. He'll go back. He'll stoke the coals into a proper fire and maybe do some stretches. His forehead is resting against the wood now, and he grits his teeth. The fingers of his right hand rest also upon it still, and he closes his eyes against the sight. At least they do not tap again.

                So close, and yet so far. He manages to pull himself off the door with only a small creak of the hinges, hands rubbing at his face as if to get the feeling off. It is when he finally turns to leave that the damnable thing opens behind him.

                His shame is thick in his mouth, a dry linen he can't move. He doesn't turn to look. That tousled bed-head always does him in.

                "You'll let the chill in. Come on, then." Feet pad softly away from the door. Such trust. Not misplaced, it would seem, as his body turns to do as it's bidden. He latches the door behind as he slips in.

                "Sorry if I woke you. Was just out for a walk." He was right about the bed-head. A small smile quirks back at him from under a pillow-skewed moustache.

                "You can exercise in the morning." Simple, direct, as Bull himself usually is. Dorian stretches in that way Bull likes best, the one where he's completely unaware how good his skin looks moving over the muscles in his back and how appealing the pull of his neck is. Physical honesty, in a sense. He scoots to the far side of his bed as he gets back in, knowing Bull prefers to sleep closest to the door.

                He turns his gaze away from the handsome mage, opting instead to reflect on the fireplace. Dorian has it crackling away still, of course, even in the dead of night. It is warm in this room, warmer than his own by far. Standing here now he feels foolish, embarrassed by the part of himself that brought him. The part that seeks the damned little 'Vint out, even when his mind ought to be elsewhere.

                "Get over here already, would you?" One eye is still half-open, watching his indecision.

                "I should let you sleep. You don't want me keeping you awake all night." He tries for lecherous, but the words sound flat even to him. Dorian's sigh is completely unconvinced.

                "Bull. Come here." He levers himself up onto one arm, and the Bull does as he's told. Dark eyes gaze up at him from what is possibly the most inviting bed he's ever seen in Orlais, and though that says a lot, he stops just shy of crawling in. Dorian extends a hand to pull lightly at his own. "Did you lock the door?"

                "Yeah." The words are a mumble.

                "Good. I have to tell you... I am glad you came. I'd like you to stay, if you're willing." Bull sits, extending his fingers to trail along Dorian's face, his jaw.

                "You don't have to do that. You know how word gets around here. Why even offer?" Dorian's face turns to kiss his palm, and Bull allows it. As if he would do anything else. As if he could, tonight.

                "Take off your pants and get into my bed, you brute, before I am forced to get back up and disrobe you myself. And _no_ ," he growls pointedly, "it will no fun at all, I assure you." Bull chuckles under his breath.

                "Always so pushy." Again he does as he's told, stripping down and sliding in. Dorian wastes no time in cuddling up to him, wedging himself into those spots he fits best, pulling himself halfway onto Bull's chest with a pile of pillows (and a bit of help). Bull can't help but chuckle again as the human gets comfortable. He's too damned endearing for his own good.

                Dorian's breathing levels out surprisingly quickly, his weight settling even quicker as he drifts off. For all his size, he is still small compared to Bull, and the weight is more comfort than anything. A few small moustache hairs ruffle with the gentle in and out of breath, and Bull smiles to himself.

                "Thank you," he whispers to the quiet room. Dorian nuzzles his head ever so slightly up against Bull's neck. Not asleep yet, then.

                "You are always welcome where I am, amatus."


	3. Bodies in Your Arms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric never meant to come back to the Fade. But then, it's been a long time since his life followed his intentions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unrequited Hawke/Varric. T rating? No warnings.  
> Prompt: Things you said too quietly

                It's not that he was rethinking his position: churches were still bogus. Sure, Varric could appreciate the business model -- draw in the faithful, give 'em enough to hook 'em, and then milk those suckers for enough gold to build a stairway to the Maker's seat itself. Just because the Chantry was corrupt, though, didn't mean it was _all_ lies. That's how they hooked people, after all. Half-truths made for dirty arguments when they came up against your average peasant education.

                They had a lot to say about hellfire and eternal damnation, for example. Had seemed to make decent sense, all told, and it would make a liar out of him to say he'd never thought about it. He was thinking about it for now, that was for damn sure. And when they got out of this mess, he was going straight to Mother Giselle and telling her they were all full of shit. He knew what hell looked like firsthand, now. Crooked spires rose out of pools that should have been water but clung like sewage. The spectres of your deepest fears trying to gnaw your face off under the sickly green glow of the apocalypse. Hell was nothing like the stories.

                Bianca let another volley of bolts fly, and the last of the wraiths burnt up around them. Well, the last of these wraiths, anyway. The Nightmare's lair seemed to contain an endless supply of them. Well-fed?! Well-fed was an understatement. Corypheus had bloated this demon beyond anything they'd ever seen on their side of the Veil. A side Varric was very much missing right now, calf-deep in murky puddles as he was.

                "Once again, Hawke is in danger because of you, Varric." _Kick_. Wet rocks went splashing up onto the bank, clattering and echoing in the dark. "You found the red lyrium." _Kick_. Out of the filth they trudged, up another slope. "You brought Hawke here..."

                "Keep talking, Smiley." The demon's laughter resonated in his bones, vibrating in his ribs and setting his teeth on edge. _Just a demon. This is what they do_. It moved on to Vivienne, taunts landing just as square, if he was any judge. The Iron Bull got it next, a particularly horrid visual smeared along Varric's mind's eye, and it seemed to the dwarf that if this really was damnation (and he was pretty certain it was), then company was still the best salve for the soul. If it lightened the load to bear the weight amongst themselves, though, he wasn't going to be the one to say it.

                Until it got to Hawke. All the letters and post in the world hadn't prepared him for seeing her again, not really, steel and sinew and tired smile radiant under the sun. As the Nightmare laced into her, he knew it had been right. She had escaped, after all. She wouldn't be here, in danger again, if it weren't for him.

                "Do you think it mattered, Hawke? Do you think anything you did ever mattered? You couldn't even strike down a single demon as it consumed your friend whole. How do you expect to strike down a god?" Hawke spat as she ran headlong into the next group of enemies, dual blades rending arachnid flesh in a brutal spray. "Varric is going to die, just like your family, and everyone you ever cared about."

                The wraith's body slid off Hawke's daggers, dead and mutilated, as a look of horror crossed her features. Her body tensed in revulsion even as her arm jerked briefly toward it. Her eyes slid to Varric, and the look on her face hit him square. He knew it better than he'd ever wanted to. He'd seen it in the paths under Kirkwall, her baby sister dying of the Blight in her arms. He'd seen it through rivulets of blood as she wept over her mother's mutilated body. And he saw it now, the instinctual reaction leaping forward before her stoic, cynical nature could cover it up. She fixed him with _that look_ , because it was still easier than looking down at the body she'd just slain.

                Not a spider, he suspected, not as she was seeing it. Just another loved one dead on her hands. The stuff of true nightmares for Marian Hawke.

                Her gaze jerked away as she moved on, demonic minion behind her and out of sight. She ran a palm heel up to push her hair away from her face, wiping suspiciously close to one eye as she did.

                "Well, that's going to grow tiresome quickly." Blades flashed as she found another target, sinking them deeper than was strictly necessary. Varric loosed his loaded bolt, arms on automatic and bile in his throat. His fingers lingered longer than was necessary on Bianca's stock as he moved to reload.

                Bianca. Bolt in, cranked back. How much she'd given him. How much she'd taken. He swallowed hard as his gaze twitched back up, scanning for his next target.

                "I love you too, Hawke," he whispered into the cacophony of combat. "Maker preserve me, I love you, too."


	4. Wait... What Did You Call Me?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders gets a call he was not expecting. Fenris (hopefully?) learns not to drunk-dial.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pre-Fenders. T rating, no warnings.  
> Prompt: things you said over the phone

                Anders was no stranger to calls in the middle of the night. There was no turning the phone off when working in critical care, even if he wasn't meant to be on-call. And he wasn't, and it shouldn't have been flashing and buzzing, but it was, and he'd be damned if he could ignore it. A long-fingered hand flopped out of the blankets, patting the nightstand until it got a grip of the offending bit of tech.

                Blurry eyes squinted at the big fat "F" on the screen. That couldn't be right.

                Maybe it was Hawke drunk dialling him again. It may have been a Wednesday, but she'd be damned if that ever stopped her. Why not use her own phone, though, were that the case?

                The phone chirped its invitation again, an old ginger tabby grumping on the lock screen behind that strange, strange letter. F. No way. No "F"-ing way.

                The mage grinned at his own joke as he dragged himself up on his elbows, free hand scrubbing his face. What if it _was_ him? He'd called Anders all of twice before, and neither time was for social reasons. They were... acquaintances. Peripheral friends. Not call-each-other-at-2-in-the-morning friends. His thumb hovered reluctantly over the little green circle only briefly before making its mind up. If it wasn't him, Anders wanted to know who it was. And if it was, well... They may not have been share-popcorn-at-the-theatre friends, but they were shed-blood-for-each-other allies. He would fight every last stupid, uninformed opinion the man had, as well as every last good-for-nothing Tevinter menace who thought they could ever have him back. He clicked the bedside lamp to life as he set the phone to his ear, dragging himself further into a sitting position.

                "M'rn'ng," he mumbled into the mic, a rasp in his throat. "What is it?"

                "Mage." The deep rumble across the line was unmistakeable.

                "As in, there is a mage or you need a mage? It's two in the morning, Fenris. Is Hawke with you? Where are you? What's going on?"

                _Huff_. "You talk too much, you know." Anders gave a short, harsh laugh.

                "And calling gives you a live feed right to the chatter, Fen. If you don't want to hear me talk, you've made a grave miscalculation." A few beats of silence. "Really though. Do you need backup? If you can't speak freely, just... I don't know, tell me today's date."

                "Today's...? You mean yesterday's date? Or tomorrow's?" Glass clinked in the background. "You are terrible at this, mage. You need to be more direct if you think someone is... is, _hrmmm_... in trouble. It's _two in the morning_ , you realize. The date you're asking for is un _clear_." Anders gawped at his phone, holding it away from his face as if possessed for a moment. _The hell?_

                "Are... are you drunk?" Another clink across the line. A flick of the hand had Anders' phone hovering next to him while he pulled on the closest pair of pants. Something was going on, had to be.

                "You tell me. You're the physician here."

                "Hard to tell without a physical." _Idiot!_ Words always falling unconsidered out of his mouth, bad habit. "Let's say for argument's sake you aren't. Drunk, that is." Phone back in hand, grabbing a hoodie from the nearest chair, Anders made for the front door and his sandals. "You aren't drunk, and you aren't in trouble. What's up?" A heavy sigh on the other end, and Anders paused again. Silence was hard, but the elf was quiet at the best of times. Even if it took him _FOREVER_ for to get to the point, it was often prudent to let him.

                "I don't think I said that." Anders' stupid healer's heart squeezed at the quiet tone across the line, as he leaned one-handed against his rickety pressboard door.

                "Nope. You didn't. You haven't told me anything yet." Another couple beats of silence. "And... and you don't have to." Shuffling only on the far end of the line, shuffling and quiet, barely-there breaths. Getting closer to the mark, then. "If you need to, you can tell the phone, you know. Phones are helpful like that. They'll carry whatever you need them to, and no one ever has to know."

                "Will they, now." Fenris huffed. More clinking of glass. "I'd like to see them carry my blade. It's heavier than it looks." _Huff_. "And the armour. The metal insets aren't for show, you know. The whole affair gets damn heavy after... after a while."

                "I bet. You'd never know they weigh you down, though." Anders put his back to the door and slid until he was seated against it. The sharp laugh from the other end was too high-pitched, too pinched.

                "Weigh me down, hm? More every day. Sometimes. It feels like. Why do you hate me, mage? You're such a hypocrite."

                "Me?? Wait, what?" Anders' mouth snapped open and shut a few times, almost at a loss for words. " _This_ is what you're calling for? That's rich, coming from you. It's two in the morning, and you're calling me to give me shit about my attitude?"

                " _Ugh_. Forget it." he grumbled.

                "Oh no you don't. You think being drunk is an excuse to -- "

                "I said FORGET IT, _mage_."

                "No! No way! You tell me right now -- " _*click*_

                The dial tone buzzed loud in Anders' hand, uncaring and uninterested. He blinked at the red light glowing against his face as the noise abruptly died. _Call ended,_ _2:15 ._ Officially the two weirdest minutes of his whole day. Maybe of his whole tomorrow, depending on how one counted the damned dates, apparently. What the hell was that? He didn't think brainwashing was a thing yet. You could pull strings with necromancy, but nothing close to this. And Maker, how he wanted it to be magic. A curse of some kind, something he could break and forget about.

                Wait, _no_ , that was the last thing he wanted. The last thing Fenris needed was more cruel spellwork. The last thing Anders wanted was for him to be someone's puppet. Not ever again, not him. He sighed into the dark, light on his phone dimming, sitting in nothing but pants and an open hoodie in the entryway to his tiny apartment. His thumb swiped the phone back to life again and pulled up his contact list.

                Not that the elf would answer, of course. Four times, five, and the call dead-ended in the message that reminded everyone he refused to set up his voice mail. Hang up, call again, let it ring out. It was only the third try before that familiar baritone snapped across a live connection.

                "I told you to forget it. You never know when to quit, you know that?"

                "I don't."

                "I know you don't. You're like a cur with a bone."

                "Hate you, I mean. I don't hate you, Fenris. I don't." A half-slurred scoff.

                "Liar." Anders shook his head.

                "I hate that you hate magic, granted. I hate your opinions on it, and that you hate people born to it. I hate when you would rather get bandaged than healed, and that you pay extra for utilities instead of having Sandal come fit your place. And... and I hate that you have good reason to be so wary of magic in the first place. But not you, Fenris. You're wrong about that. I don't hate you." That silence again, falling in beat after beat. Fingers threaded into his hair, sweeping it out of his face. He knew it wasn't smart to keep going, but if there was one thing Anders was absolute crap at, it was staying quiet. "You still there, Fen?"

                "I hate that you love magic," came the admission, hazy and thick. "I hate that you will scream freedom from the rooftops, but never one cast a word about safety for the rest of us. I know you smuggle mages across the border when you go, and I hate that, too. And I hate knowing that every time I invite you to my home, I invite all of this with you." Fenris sighed into the quiet, glass clinking as liquid sloshed from one vessel to another.

                "Do... do you hate me, Fenris?" A _clunk_ was the only reply as Anders held his breath. Another sigh.

                "No, Anders, I do not. I do not hate you." The quiet sound of drink carried across the line, the only noise in the night. "Were you wrong, too?"

                "... Yeah. Yeah, Fen, I think I was."


	5. So Bright, and yet So Dim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post-game, pre-assassination/kidnapping. Dorian is a smart cookie, but sometimes he can't see the forest for the trees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Adoribull. G rating, no warnings.  
> Prompt: Things you said with too many miles between us.

                Bull didn't think he'd ever really come to accept magic as normal. Helpful in a fight? Sure. Terrifying in a fight? Always. Kinda handy for everyday things, and kinda fun in the sack, and kinda impressive in general, no question... but no, not normal. Never that. He twisted the small crystal in his hand to watch it catch the light, and mused that "normal" had never been something he'd been great at anyway.

                "Are you listening to me, Amatus?" The mild distortion of the sending spell did nothing to take the sharp edge off Dorian's voice. "I asked you a question."

                "No, you didn't, and yeah, I'm listening." He stretched his leg, rewarded with a satisfying _pop_ from his bad knee.

                "Clearly you're not. I _asked_ \-- "

                "It was rhetorical, and you know it. You're edgy again tonight, kadan." Dorian huffed across the line. Papers shuffled, and something fell with a clatter.

                " _Kaffas._ Again. It's already after sundown here. I'm _tired_ , Bull. I told you that." Bull rubbed absently under the strap of his eyepatch.

                "I know. Been tired a lot, lately, it seems."

                "I'd like to see you keep up with these vultures," came the muttered reply. "I don't need your judgement."

                "Not judging, kadan. Just... you know."

                "Worried about me?" Bull could almost see the tired tilt to Dorian's lips as he said it, a gentle tease. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you were getting soft in your age."

                "Not where it counts." Dorian laughed at that, and Bull tried to take the in. "Sounds to me like you need a night off. Tevinter's full of spectacles and flashy crap, last I checked. Go get shitfaced. Take a friend. _Make_ a friend." He waggled his eyebrows at the empty room.

                "Such tact and refinement, such a gentleman," Dorian chuckled back. "Alas, it would not be the reprieve it ought to be, not these days. It'll be another night in, I'm afraid."

                "You, not up for a good show? You sure I'm talking to the right 'Vint?"

                "You would be so lucky. No, it's still me, amatus. I suppose my shadows have just been tiring is all."

                "Your... shadows."

                "You know, the little footpads that have been dogging my movements. I thought I told you about them." Dorian's voice was light, but Bull found himself suddenly very still.

                "Someone's following you?"

                "Nothing so dramatic, Bull. Besides, they're so apparent it barely counts. There are a few different faces, but aside from being painfully obvious, I've never seen any of them work their own magic. They've never made a move against me, they never get too close, and they never follow me onto the grounds of the estate. Moreover, their lacklustre performance means that whoever is paying them clearly doesn't have the means to be any sort of threat in the public sphere, either." Dorian stopped, but after a couple beats of silence, felt compelled to add: "So don't start worrying about it."

                "Let me get this right." Bull was pleased with himself for being able to keep a level tone. (Took a lot of training to learn that, after all.) "You're being followed by multiple people who are crap enough to let you see them from a distance, but never bad enough to lose you. They never seem to make a move to hurt you, steal your shit, or crowd you into or out of a place, they just follow you as you go about your daily routine. And they never try to break into your very public base of operations."

                "It's called a _home_ , Bull."

                "How do you know they don't try to sneak in?"

                "Because we have security, thank you. I am not a complete ignoramus. And I believe this counts as worrying. Stop it."

                "You hire any of this security recently? How about the household help?" Bull had come back to sitting at some point, elbows on his knees and good eye looking somewhere into the distance.

                "Bull. That is enough."

                "That isn't an answer, Dorian. How many strangers are walking around your home right now? _How many new faces_?" No no no. It was late. It was late, they were leagues away, and half his company was already shitfaced. _Crap._

                " _Bull!_ You will _not_ take that tone with me. I am a grown man, thank you, and you will watch your tongue. I put up with quite enough already, and I am _not_ about to take shit from you, understand?" Dorian's voice had all the crack of a whip, and Bull caught the next words before they left his lips.

                "Yeah. Yeah, I understand," he muttered. _Make peace._

                "Good. I appreciate your concern, but if you recall, I did grow up here. There are _always_ vultures, Bull. There is always someone waiting for you to slip, always someone around a corner with a metaphorical knife, and it is the paranoid that make the richest feasts for them." Dorian sighed across the line, and not for the first time, Bull wanted to crush the insufficient fragment in his hand. "I knew what I was getting into, amatus. It is just... tiring, sometimes."

                "They're lucky to have you," Bull muttered.

                "And I you, you stubborn, headstrong man."

                "Like lookin' in a mirror, isn't it?" Dorian scoffed, and it brought a small smile to Bull's tight lips.

                "Perhaps one of those carnival mirrors," he sniffed. "Look, I have much yet to tend to, and the night is not getting any younger. Another night?"

                "You know where to find me, kadan."

                It was never easy saying goodbye to a sending crystal, at least not for Bull. He certainly wouldn't call it easy tonight. He stood quickly and strode out of his room, ignoring the aches and pops his body had earned recently, and made his way to the tavern downstairs. They seldom stayed at inns -- too much opportunity for property damage and shitty behaviour -- but Dorian was right. He was getting soft in his age.

                At least his people seemed to be minding themselves tonight. They were the life of the party, clearly drawing the locals into their mix and keeping the bar staff hopping. Krem caught his eye from one corner, extricating himself with ease and making his way over with a few apologies and hearty laughs.

                "Hey, Chief!" He greeted the Bull loudly before turning inward and dropping his tone. A drink on his breath, but not in his eyes. Good lad, this one. "What's going on? You've got a look."

                "Might be nothin'. Might be somethin'. We need a dozen that'll be fit to ride north come morning."


End file.
